Unchained Memories
by castielslittlebitch
Summary: One second his brother was there, and then the next he wasn't. Rated M for language and violence. Hurt!/Femme!/Amnesiac! Dean and Awesome!/Worried!/Slightly Angsty! Sammy. ON HOLD!
1. Epilouge

This idea has been running around my head for a while now, and so I've finally spit it out and written it out! I actually think this one will be awesome! I want to thank AmserBlaidyn from deviantart for giving me that extra push for writing this, and also to all of the authors of Supernatural who are on my fav list, because they have given me inspirations all the time!

Oh yeah, this is NOT (not) an OC/Sammy story. The girl in this story is NOT an OC.

Also, all mistakes/typos are ALL mine.

Another thing- I'm not really sure if CentreVille is a real town or place in America. If it is, then that's awesome.

Disclaimer- Kripke is in a good mood today, so I'm playing in his sandbox before he kicks me out.

6 months ago…

Jackson Stahl locked the door to the bar, slipping the silver key into his pocket. He owned the bar, and it's hours ended at five in the morning. It was lightly drizzling, and he shivered slightly at how cool it was. CentreVille's autumns were crisp in the morning and even colder at night, but the rain had made it even colder than usual. Of course he had forgotten a light jacket to take with him, because the weather had been fine this morning.

He wasn't a terribly old man, but he wasn't as young as he used to be. His hair was salt and pepper, and his eyes were a walnut color. He had no family left, unless you counted a father he'd never met and a delusional sister who wasn't exactly all there.

He passed another alleyway, this one with a dumpster on the right side and other random crap blowing around from the insane, sudden winds. It had started to pour bullets of rain, and Jackson cursed. A flash of lightning lit up the sidewalk for a second, and he saw the tip of a silver-studded black boot behind the dumpster. Another flash and he noticed that there were two boots, silver studs shining in the sudden flashes of lightning and the crazed downpour of rain.

Jackson went down into the alleyway, wondering who the hell could just be chilling behind a dumpster in the middle of a storm. There weren't a lot of homeless people in CentreVille, and the ones who were homeless went to the shelter during storms as bad as this one. He then rushed over and kneeled down besides a girl, dirty blonde hair styled in a boys spikes with rain water dripping down onto her face. Her jeans were ripped and black, and a simple black V-neck and leather jacket was on her torso. He didn't need the lightning to see the dark crimson drying on the left side of her slightly tanned face, or that her eyes were slits and glazed over orbs of murky confusion.

"Hey, you with me?" He asked, not finding any other injuries besides the head wound and the bruises mottled on her throat. Were those…handprint-shaped bruises? What kind of monster did that to people, especially a defenseless, teenage girl?

A pitiful sound emitted from the girls mouth, and Jackson slightly started at the noise. Her eyes were more open than before, but they were still glazed over and dazed with pain. "Hey, hold on kid. Help's coming real soon," He promised, pulling out his phone, ignoring the cold rain slapping down on his back. The girl shook her head, features contorting with pain, and suddenly a shaking hand clamped down on his wrist, turning bone white at the knuckles from the pressure. "N-nuuuh…no…pl's…"

"What's your name kid?"

The girl took in a ragged breath, hair now fully drenched with rainwater. "'T's…it's…" her eyes rolled back, and she slumped forwards.

Well, shit.

He looked down at his phone, then back at the unconscious girl. He should finish the number. She, whoever she was, obviously needed immediate medical attention.

But…

Jackson sighed, then shoved his phone in his back pocket of his soaked jeans and picked up the girl bridal style. He couldn't just leave her there, and she had looked so…pathetic. Besides, the law didn't exactly seem to be her sort of thing, which is probably why she hadn't wanted to go to the hospital.

This was, by far, the stupidest thing he had ever done. Ever. And that included all those retaded bets from college and high school that included lots of alcohol. Thank God his apartment was only a block away.

And the rain poured down

**TBC…**


	2. Chapter 1

This story is set in season 8 and is before the trials were around to hurt Sammy. In the future chapters, there will be lots of spoilers for all the seasons.

****The Batcave wasn't discovered yet too! (because tey just love their motels)****

Disclaimer- I have been a good girl today, so I get a few minutes playing around with the boys.

6 months later…

Irene finished mixing the cocktail, then slid it carefully over to the chick with reddish-brown, curly locks and honey brown eyes, already thinking about the next customer. It was an extremely busy night, but, then again, every Friday night was. She and the other bartenders were constantly moving, consistently making drinks or making sure that some puke was cleaned up because somebody had had the pleasure of being introduced to the limit of alcohol they could have before vomiting it all up again.

Her adoptive father, Jackson, was the owner of the bar and had found her bloodied and bruised in an alleyway six months ago. When she had woken up in his living room/dining room, she had absolutely no memory other than a pair of bloodshot eyes and a screechy voice saying something in some weird, foreign language, the words fuzzy and distant.

Irene had grown to like Jackson in the first week of living with him, and the trust had come a little after that. She had no sort of ID on her, so she had just chosen whatever name she had felt like. She wasn't exactly sure how, but in less than a month Jackson had legally (okay, maybe not _that_ legally) adopted her into his family of one.

They had guessed that she was around 18, and that was an okay age for her. Jackson had taught her the basics of bartending, and the rest she had either learned herself from watching the others or her co-workers had taught her in their breaks. She was a fairly hot girl, with dirty blonde hair styled into a boys spiked style, dark grey eyes and slightly tanned skin. With the customers she was charismatic and sunny, which made them seem to keep wanting to come back…well, okay, maybe the drinks helped out with that fact. Not that her 38C also helped with the customers.

Irene never let any customers touch her, though. Neither did Jackson, for that matter. One time, on her first week of the job, a drunk guy had gotten just a little _too _close to her. That was the night that the entire bar found out that Irene could kick your ass. And once a girl had tried to rape her when she had gone outside for a smoke. Jackson had come out of nowhere, shotgun in hand, and had severely threatened that girl to either shag ass or get full of buckshot. Still, Jackson always had someone watching out for her, even if he couldn't be around.

"Hey, my shift's up. Sure you'll be good?" Bethany said, putting away some final glasses. She had been Irene's sort of mentor during her first weeks, telling her about popular customers and what they liked. Her dark red hair with leopard print and hawk feathers imprinted in it cascaded down her back, and her slim figure and short stature made her look like a freshmen in high school rather than the 21 year old that she was. "Yeah, I'll be fine. Raúl's supposed to be here at nine, which is in less than half an hour."

"Gotcha. Good luck tonight."

Bethany left, hair whipping behind her sexily. Irene sighed, grabbing a towel and wiping a glass dry. Bethany, even though she was a good worker and cared a lot about her job, always seemed to be leaving work early. Probably to hook up with her multiple 'boyfriends' in some club.

Irene coughed into a fist, feeling her gut tighten up into that familiar clench, inwardly cursing. In her first weeks with Jackson, they had discovered that, somehow, she was sick. She had random coughing fits, and she seemed to catch virus' a lot easier than most people. The doctors hadn't been able to find anything or what was wrong with her, and the best they could do was give her meds for the symptoms. She hated taking them because they always left a bile taste in her mouth, but the consequences for skipping them were serious, like coughing up specks of blood or burning-yet-frozen lungs.

Which ended up with free vacations to the hospital with thousands of tubs going into her. Which resulted with her waking up from unconsciousness due to lack of oxygen with a tube shoved down her throat to help her breathe, scaring the living shit out of her.

That had only happened three times, as her memory for the first month hadn't exactly been the best. When she had woken up…she had literally pissed her pants. But, then again, there were also drugs pumping into her bloodstream…

She sighed again, then filled a glass full of water and swallowed three small pills. Jackson would kill her if she ended up in the hospital again for a fourth time in six months. Besides, she didn't feel like coughing up her intestines in front of her co-workers and the customers.

She saw Raúl come through the door, and she tucked the bottle of tablets in her back pocket. Irene looked up towards the counter, seeing a new person sitting bar side. He had soft yet sad hazel eyes and shaggy brown hair. He was a giant guy, but his face gave him the look of an adorable-yet-tough, oversized puppy.

Irene felt a wave of warmth wash over her when she saw him, and then she froze. That was security. But if he was from her past, then wouldn't he have noticed her already? Her heart sank a little, but she went over to him anyways to try and strike up a conversation.

"Haven't seen you around here ever since I started workin' here."

He looked up, smiling faintly at her. "Yeah, I just got here yesterday."

"Lemme guess: business."

"Yeah."

The following silence was awkward, but not so heavily awkward that Irene wants to undo even bothering talking to the guy.

"So what happened?"

The question shoves itself out from her mouth before she can even take it back. _Shit._ He doesn't seem bothered by the question, but Irene could see the sadness grow a little before it was shoved and buried deep inside the guy. "I…lost someone."

That explained it, then.

This wasn't her first 'let's get drunk so that we don't have to deal with my losses' rodeo, because once a customer got drinking, they started pouring out all these mistakes that they did and how they wished that they had never had sex with so-and-so. But somehow, this guy was different. Somehow, he was…

This had to be her meds. It just had to be.

"He was enlisted when he…left. I never even got to say anything to him before he left for the war. I mean…one second I'm seeing his back, heading for the door to leave, and the next he's gone."

Irene leaned a little over the counter, hands loosely clasped together on the counter. "Look…I've never lost someone. I don't know what it's like. All I know is that that person that leaves you…they leave a hole inside of you." He went to take another drink, but she stopped him and eased the shot glass away from him slowly, then continued and said softy, "But I know that, over time, that hole that they left can eventually heal. You've just gotta give it time. And, hell, maybe it's gonna be a long time, maybe a few months or years, but it _will _heal."

He nodded, shaggy hair getting into his face. He finished the shot, then stood up slightly unsteadily. Irene nodded to herself, then said, "Alright, I'm diving you home."

"What?"

"Yeah, I'm _really _driving you home. No one else here is gonna drive you, and I can always leave early because my dad owns this bar, so he won't mind."

"But, you have-"

Irene laughed a little, then said, "Yeah, well, you are _not _driving after having all those shots, and I don't feel like having you end up hitting someone on the road. So you can either kill someone or suck it up and let me drive."

She pulls up to some motel that looks like it could use some help in its sanitation department, parking where the man had parked before he had left for the bar.

The guy had a beautiful car. It was a 1967 Impala, and she absolutely loved it. Not that she knew much about cars, but everything about it was fascinating. The scent, the purr of the engine, the sexy build.

Okay, this was _definitely _the meds.

"How're you gonna get back?" The guy asked her when they reached his room. Irene whipped out her phone, then said, "I could always get a cab or something." He nodded, and right before he was about to close the door she stuck her foot in the crack, stopping it from shutting all the way.

"Wait. I don't even know your name."

He smiled a little, then said, "Sam. My name's Sam." She pulled her foot out of the way, and the door shut quietly. Irene walked away, dialing on her phone for a taxi to drive her back to the bar.

Sam sighed, water dripping down his face from where he had splashed it on from the bathroom sink. That girl…had seemed a lot like…dammit. He couldn't keep doing this to himself. Dean was dead, and he couldn't keep imagining some random shit that wasn't even real. Dean was dead. He'd been dead for six months. He. Was. Gone.

It hurt a little to admit it to himself, but he had forced himself to accept it a while ago. Because no one could save his brother. One second his brother was there, and then the next he wasn't.

But still…she had seemed so much like his brother. The personalities, the appearance…well, except for the eyes, but still…

He couldn't do this to himself. Not when he was going to be hunting tomorrow. Not when he couldn't be distracted by anything because if he was then he'd be dead. Not when he needed to get ready for a clear head tomorrow.

Not when…

Sam came out the bathroom, feeling the familiar ache at seeing the empty bed, of not seeing the other bag of stuff on the ground, of not hearing the water running or-

Goddammit.


End file.
